Tricky Puck: a Fake Fiancee Hockey Rom-Com (Portsmouth Whalers Hockey Romance)

Chapter 12

My answer doesn’t calm him in the least, although admittedly, I’m sidestepping the crux of the issue. But this isn’t the time or place to get into the whole matchmaker’s plan for us to live together, is it?

We catch up to the others, and the team owner takes Link’s other arm as we turn the corner en masse. I get swept up as we head toward an exit sign. Emery is still holding my arm, and Link, who almost lost his shit when he saw me as if I came back from the dead—and still gives off the horror story vibes like he’s not the least happy to see me—walks along my other side, blocking my escape.

Not that I need an escape because I can handle this. We’ll have dinner, and I’ll get back in my car and?—

“What are you doing here with all your things?” he whispers in a deep, foreboding voice as he leans into me, taking my elbow and separating me from Emery as we push through a door into a parking garage.

“See you at The Hole in the Wall in a few,” Chase calls as he and Emery turn in a different direction, presumably to their car.

Link half-drags me to a giant SUV—the kind you see in New York in the U.N. district when VIPs are in town and need high-level security. He pulls me to the passenger side and opens the door.

“Well?”

“I think I’ll need a ladder to get in.” I’m stalling because I know he’s waiting for the answer to the question of what I’m doing, showing up at his game unannounced with my car packed up for a long stay and schmoozing with his friends behind his back. It’s funny when you think about it.

I probably should have called to warn him I’d be at the game. But hell, Granny said the matchmaker set it all up, so it can’t be a complete surprise. I would have gone to his house if he was going to be home, but I thought it would be cool to go to his game. Maybe not so cool after all.

He shoves his hand through his hair with such violence I’m afraid he’s going to rip out a chunk of that gorgeous mane.

“Jesus, Delaney. What are you doing here? You should’ve called me if you wanted to come to my game.”

“Your game? I’m not here to see your game. Did you forget? I’m not a hockey fan or a sports fan of any kind.” I hop up into his car with an effort like I’m mounting a giant horse, like one of those tall beauties that patrol Central Park.

He stares at me for a beat, his face unreadable, his green eyes intense and confusing, sending me all kinds of mixed signals—or maybe those signals are getting mixed after they reach my messed-up head. Emotions that I usually have no problem keeping cool are all boiled up and turning into a giant ball, and my gut knots up into a sailor”s dream whether he’s intended it or not.

He shuts my door in a controlled swing with a soft yet decisive snick, then he goes around and gets in the driver’s side. All the while, my guts are getting more tangled than ever. I should get out of his car and into mine and head for George’s cabin right now. I don’t need to stay with Link for even one night. Granny will never know.

He punches the start button with no extra force, though I’d swear the waves of energy coming from him have the force of a hurricane—emotionally speaking—but then, I’m no expert.

He revs the engine with one tell-tale hard pump of the gas, then turns to me. “What the holy fuck are you doing here?”

“You honestly don’t know?” It finally occurs to me that maybe Granny’s matchmaker overstated her assurance that Link was on board with the living together plan. “Shit.”

“Shit what? What’s going on, Delaney?”

“The matchmaker told Granny and me that the plan was all set?—”

“What fucking plan?” The volume of his voice goes up before he takes a deep breath to dial it back as he stops at a light.

I face him. “The plan where I move in with you so we can get to know each other.” I school my voice and my expression to something as neutral as I can make it with my nerves jangling like bells on a shop door, grasping for my slippery New York persona, though I feel like I lost it somewhere between the Massachusetts border and the New Hampshire seacoast—who knew New Hampshire had a seacoast?

“Are you fucking with me? You just up and quit your life to move up here with me after one night of…” He slows down his tirade, his expression softens, and his eyes change, losing their glare.

“It’s not about us. Our grandmothers?—”

He puts up a hand to stop me, which is doubly alarming because he’s driving and already more than distracted. His mouth stays shut, so I finish my thought, leaving our grandmothers out of it since his grandmother is evidently a sore spot—or more likely his soft spot, as in Achilles heel.

“Besides, I was already leaving my life behind to come up and stay at…a friend’s cabin in Sugar Hill, NH.” I’m not stupid enough to tell him it’s George’s cabin.

He flashes a glare at me while he grips the steering wheel tighter. “Is this friend male or female?”

Shit. “That’s what you have to say?”

“That’s not an answer.” He glares again, but this glare is different. Is this a protective streak, like my uncles? No—nothing like my uncles. Call me a dreamer, but I’d bet my Granny’s farm—if she had one—that Link Milano is showing jealousy. Shit. I tamp down on the droplet of giddiness because, really? The last thing I need is another possessive, jealous man interfering in my life.

“It hardly matters since he won’t be there.” I don’t mind taunting Link, but the taunt has the opposite effect I expected. Did I forget for a second that I was dealing with Link, the hockey superstar, who no doubt has all kinds of cool ego to back him up and more ice in his veins than blood?

His expression shutters as soon as he recognizes the taunt for what it is.

“You’re running away to a cabin in the middle of nowhere to write songs.”

“Don’t say it.”

“Don’t say that you’re turning yourself into a cliché?”

I swat his shoulder—not enough force for him to send us into oncoming traffic—and try to hide my smile. Shit. Why does he get me? Does he get into everyone’s head, or is it just mine where he’s pulled up a lounger, leaned back with a bowl of popcorn, and made himself comfortable?

He pulls into an alley and parks at the back of a brick building directly in front of a sign that says No Parking.

I see his friend Sabien get out of a car nearby and then come around to help Cherry out. I wait in silence for some kind of decision or closure or something from Link to determine whether I stay or run. Then I turn to him. What I do should be up to me and no one else.

“I’m not staying. I’ll take an Uber back to my car and head up to the cabin now.”

He looks at me like he wants to shake me or kiss me—not quite sure. Either way, he shakes his head.

“No. You’re not. You should at least stay the night. It’s a long drive on dark, deserted roads, and you’re already tired from your drive up here.” He pauses, gives me a huge helping of his intense green eyes that almost makes my brain stop working—as if his eyes are weaponized and can sap the will from a woman. Hell, he probably can and does it regularly.

“Whatever else I might be, I’m not the kind of guy who would send a woman out into a dangerous situation.”

“Of course not,” I snort, getting my New York City mojo back. “You have a protective streak so wide I could see it with my eyes closed.” Shit. That made no sense.

He chooses at this moment to allow a smile because he knows I’ve lost it—lost this round of whatever game we’re playing. But then I remember how he said there are no losers in our game, and the flash of memory of that last orgasm is so real it shakes me up and gets my juices flowing. Shit.

He pushes his car door open, and I let myself out and step toward the back door, but he catches up with me before I get there. Jason and the short woman, who’s supposedly a team owner, are inside, along with Sabien and Cherry.

“Chase and Emery are right behind us,” he says to his friends. His hand touches my back lightly, but I can feel it and the branding iron heat through my jacket—which maybe isn’t a big deal because it’s flimsy against the cool New Hampshire night air.

He says to the guy in a whitish apron covering his impressive girth, “We have eight people tonight, Walter.”

Walter nods and winks like a pro. “Your table is ready. I had a premonition you would be in tonight. Great win, guys.” We land at the threshold of a room partially separated from the rest of the place with a big round wooden table. “I’ll be right back with an extra setting.”

He gives me a wink and a curious look before leaving, moving faster than I figured a man his size and age might. It must be the clean air up here.

After a nudge from Sabien, Link pulls out a chair for me and leans in to whisper in my ear. “Let’s keep this simple. We met, went out, and now you’re visiting. Nothing formal. Nothing about an engagement or marriage.”

I smile and nod—because what else can I do with all eyes on me—or it feels like they are? Sometimes, they are. I can feel the caged curiosity beating to escape in every glance from his friends.

“So, how did you two meet?” Cherry asks.

Before Link can answer, Jason laughs and jumps in.

“His grandma had a matchmaker set them up, and now they’re practically engaged?—”

“What the fuck, Jason?” I can feel Link’s fury as his plan to play it casual goes up in flames. I put a hand on his arm—an automatic gesture that I in no way pre-planned or would have ever done in a million years if my brain had any say in it.

He takes a deep breath and glances at my hand. But he doesn’t shake it off.

“What?” Jason says easily. “She’s here now, so the cat’s out of the bag.” He grins at me. “Welcome to the Portsmouth Whalers family, Delaney.” He shakes his head. “That matchmaker sure knew what the hell she was doing. Any chance I can hire her?”

He laughs, all the guys do, but I notice the petite team owner—I really need to find out her name—isn’t laughing. In fact, she looks like someone just stabbed her in the heart. Maybe with a Cupid’s bow from the way she looks at Jason. The other women notice, too.

“Who are you kidding?” Sabien says. “You’re not ready to settle down.” He turns to me. “Sorry for the wild-ass introduction, but we are like family, and we’re glad you’re here to keep this reprobate in line.” He smirks at Link.

Link raises a brow and looks like he’s going to say something, but then his eyes dart to Cherry, who’s rubbing her belly, and shuts his mouth.

“It’s a temporary situation,” I say partly to ease his tension, partly to remind myself against the incoming warm and fuzzy feeling Sabien’s words prompted. But he’s not Link, so the words don’t hold the same meaning. I’m only part of the family as long as our fake relationship holds—until Christmas.

I smile. Of course. That’s what I signed up for—reluctantly—and maybe it’s all to the good for Granny and my songwriting.

“We’re sort of dating to please our grandmothers.” I shrug. May as well let the family know the truth. Link glances at me, and the relief on his face is loud and clear.

“Delaney will be staying up north in Sugar Hill?—”

“That’s near Franconia Notch, not exactly down the street. Dating will be a challenge,” Cherry says.

“We’ll be fine,” Link says.

Jason gives him a skeptical grin and is about to say something—which makes me tense up and hold my breath like I’m diving into a churning river and will need to fight to keep above the tumult—when the server comes to our table to take drink orders.

Everyone orders beers except Cherry, who orders cranberry juice, but I’m a mixed drink kind of girl, having spent a good chunk of my adult life as a bartender.

“I’ll have a Brooklyn.”

The server, a twenty-something guy dressed in black, looks at me like someone turned out the lights, and he can’t see what’s in front of him.

“You make it with one ounce of rye whiskey, half an ounce of dry vermouth, a quarter ounce of cherry-flavored liqueur, a dash of Angostura bitters, and a maraschino cherry and mint for garnish.”

“Okay. I’ll see if our bartender can make it.”

I nod.

Link smirks at me. “Show-off. New Yorker all the way. You sure you’re going to be okay up in the boonies?”

“You offering to rescue me if I’m not? Give me a dose of the Big Apple attitude?”

He looks around to see the others checking out the menu and talking among themselves before getting back to me on that dare. Because that’s what it is.

“You’re still playing the game?”

I shrug. “Why not? It’s fun.” And dangerous, don’t forget that part. Of course, that’s what makes it even more of a thrill ride.

“I’m already on this rollercoaster ride. I may as well make the most of it.” His eyes go dark, and I see some big earth-shattering Os in my future.

“Starting tonight?” I ask.

“We’ve already started.” He leans down like he’s going to whisper in my ear. Instead, he licks my earlobe and then sucks it into his mouth.

My thighs clench like the mouse just hit the trap’s spring.

“What’s the matter, Delaney? You seem…tense.” His eyes pin me and do all kinds of other things to me with their wolfish dark green charm.

“What would your grandma think?” I whisper, leaning into him so our faces are a breath apart.

Sabien clears his throat, and when I look up, the server is here with our drinks.

“Just in time,” Link mutters.

We don’t last long after the meals are served with a second round of drinks. I abstain from a second drink because I’m pretty sure it’ll put me to sleep. Most of the talk centers around the game because Link makes sure of it, and his buds are happy to talk shop. I stifle a yawn. Though I swear I’m trying to follow the conversation to learn what I can about hockey.

Link surprises me when he drapes an arm over my shoulders and leans in, whispering, “You’re really beat.” He’s not asking.

“I was wondering how many yawns it would take for you to catch on.”

He chuckles low, his breath raising the hairs at my temple, making me shiver with the intimacy.

“Take me home.”

He raises one brow and stares at me long and hard until I get what I said.

“I mean, take me to your home. Oops. Freudian slip.” I pretend it’s nothing, joking it away.

“I’ll take you home. We’ll get your car in the morning.”

I raise my brows at him.

“So you can get right to bed.” He smiles unapologetically, and I’m not sure if he’s promising me a good night’s sleep or another wild night of hockey-boy sex. Also, I’m not sure which I’m hoping for.

He pushes his chair back and stands, the first one at the table to call it a night, and then sweeps me into his arms like he’s enjoying this arrangement. As we say our good-nights, mixed feelings swirl endlessly in my tired state, but he’s so sure and solid, and we’re convincing his friends that this is real as they tell me they’ll see me again soon, and it’s so wonderful to meet me and see Link with me. Except we’re supposed to be convincing his friends we’re for real, right?

Are we faking it to please our grandmas, or do we have real chemistry?

And what if it’s both? How much hot water would that put me in the day after Christmas?